


American Ghosts

by imthehomelander



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Low Honor Arthur Morgan, M/M, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Other: See Story Notes, Period Typical Attitudes, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:48:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26062945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imthehomelander/pseuds/imthehomelander
Summary: Life in the Old West is hard for everyone, but in 1899, gunslingers and outlaws seem to have it worst of all. Especially those with dark and sinful appetites.
Relationships: Abigail Roberts Marston/John Marston, John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	1. Come All Ye Violent, Joyful and Bloodied

John relished the acrid tang of iron, the hot burst of blood that covered him, splashed on his clothing. He truly never felt more himself than when he was popping lead between the eyes of those he hated. The O’Driscolls were his favorite. The Irish bastards never saw them coming.

So now, with gunshots ringing in his ears, his heart pumping wildly, Arthur Morgan at his back, John felt _alive_. Like a bolt of lightning, quick and sharp, and completely deadly. 

Once the small gathering of O’Driscolls was subdued, John found a chair to sit in. As he got older, fighting had started to take a toll on him. As a teenager, he was able to spar with Arthur for hours without tiring- now he understood why Arthur had to take so many breaks. His back ached, and without the adrenaline racing through his veins, the shoulder hit by a bullet earlier in the fight was starting to protest. 

“Here,” Arthur said, tossing a can to John from across the room. He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, eyes screwed shut.

John looked at the can in his hands. “Really? _Assorted salted offal_? You gave me the cold pig assholes?” He put it on the table beside him.

Arthur grunted. “‘S’all I got. Sorry, kid.” He lit a match and drew it to the cigarette sticking out the side of his mouth. “I’m gonna go search the bodies outside, see if they got anything good on ‘em. You do the ones inside, and the cabin, and meet me out there when you’re done.” He pushed the door open and dropped off the front porch into the dark. John sat for a moment longer before rising from his chair. There were only three bodies in the room, all young men around his own age. He turned the one closest to him onto his back, patting down his pockets to feel for anything good. Nothing, save a couple of revolver bullets. The second wasn’t very fruitful either- a few small coins, and a single cigarette, crushed into oblivion by the weight of his body. The third was better- in his breast pocket, he had a small pocket watch. Wouldn’t likely get them much, but it was better than nothing. 

John stood back up, watching from the window as Arthur moved through the bodies outside, lit only by the dim light of a small campfire and a few lamps. The cabin he stood in was small, even by typical cabin standards. Arthur was in danger of hitting his head on the ceiling, and even though the room contained three beds, it felt more like a closet than a home. Not many places to hide things, really. But even so, John lifted all the pads from the beds, tried each brick on the fireplace, tapped each siding board on the walls. Unsurprisingly, he found nothing. He lay down on one of the sleeping pads and shut his eyes.

Arthur’s voice jerked him from his uneasy rest. “John?” His voice was strained, a little tense. “Think you should come out here.”

John pulled his sidearm from its holster, prepared for the worst, and followed the sounds of conversation outside. Arthur stood on the other side of the small clearing in front of the house, a body at his feet. Talking.

“... never gonna fucking find him,” the body on the ground said. “You got lucky here.”

Arthur's answering smile was sardonic. “Wasn’t so much luck, my friend, as it was all of you being morons. Everybody and their mother knew you were here. Hard not to, what with you shooting up every stagecoach on these roads.”

The man on the ground- a little older than the ones inside, greying at the temple- spat blood at Arthur’s feet. “Fuck you. And I _ain’t_ telling either of you shit. Kill me if you want, I don’t care.”

Arthur was silent for a moment before he knelt down beside the man. He looked him up and down, noting the several deep wounds pulsing blood from his abdomen. “You know what I think, _friend_? I think you’re already good as dead. But I also think we got a bit of time. So,” he said, standing back up, “why don’t you think of what you’re gonna tell me, while I heat up some metal to press into your pretty white skin?” He pulled a knife from his hip for dramatic effect.

The man’s eyes widened, drawn to the glint of metal in the firelight. Still, he swallowed, set his jaw, and spat a bloody, “Fuck you.” 

Arthur’s mouth twisted, and he stepped to the fire just a few feet away. Kneeling down again, he placed the tip of the blade over the flames, watching the metal warm to a red, then yellow, then white-hot glow. The man’s breathing grew more jagged. Arthur stood again, satisfied that the knife was hot enough, and brought it back to wave in the face of the man on the ground. 

“You’re gonna tell me where Colm is, or I’m gonna geld you like an animal.”

“Jesus, Arthur,” John said, taking an instinctive step back. “Just kill him already.”

The man was silent. 

“Well, alright then,” Arthur said, and started to yank the man’s pants down.

“Fuck, wait! Stop, please.” He looked around, eyes wild with fear. Raising his voice caused him to cough and splutter up more blood, black in the low light. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you, okay? Last I heard, Colm was holed up somewhere over near Heartland Overflow, just- just south of the tracks. Okay? That’s all I know. They ain’t tell me shit.”

“How many are there?”

“Shit, I don’t know. Maybe 20? There’s not so many of us nowadays, on account of you fuckers shootin’ us in our beds.”

Arthur nodded, seemingly satisfied with the information. He put the knife- now just warm- back into its leather sheath. “Thank you.” He stood up, pulling his Cattleman from its holster. “Slow or fast?”

The man on the ground groaned in pain. “What?”

Arthur gestured at his stomach. “Slow.” He held the gun up so the man could see it in the light. “Fast. What’s it gonna be?”

The man laughed, then coughed wetly. “Why don’t you just hand me the gun and I’ll do it my fuckin’ self?”

That got a smirk out of Arthur. “You and I both know that’s not happening. Just choose, before the choice gets made for you.”

He considered his options only briefly. “I’d rather not bleed out, or worse yet, become a meal before I get the chance.” He rested his head back onto the dirt and tapped a bloody finger between his closed eyes. “Fast.”

Arthur obliged.

  
  


~~~

  
  


The night’s fighting was starting to wear on John. He sagged in his saddle, aching all over, his shoulder a bright spot of pain that begged for attention over everything else. He considered calling forwards to where Arthur sat on his own horse- lovingly named Prasutagus- but before he could, he veered off the trail into some brush. Old Boy followed, picking carefully over the branches and rocks. They drifted behind the other two and arrived in a clearing to see Arthur dismount Prasutagus. The horse flicked his ears, and Arthur produced a carrot and small biscuit from his satchel.

“Here, boy,” he said in a low tone, brushing one hand down the horse’s neck, offering the food with the other. “There now.”

John dismounted Old Boy, tethering him to a nearby tree and leaving a couple of apples at its base. He untied his bedroll from the saddle and put his longarms back on the horse.

“Figured we could rest here a while. Seems safe enough.” 

John nodded in agreement, too tired to even talk. All he wanted was to sleep. Arthur cleared some of the twigs and rocks with his feet until he made an area big enough for the both of them.

“You, uh, get some rest. I’ll get a fire going.” Arthur looked at him, a little amused by how tired he seemed.

John placed his bedroll on the ground, kicking it open. He hooked his boots off with his feet, placed his gory jacket over a small branch, and lay down. He drifted off, watching Arthur placing sticks for the fire that warmed him through the night.

  
  


~~~

  
  


He woke in the morning to the smell of meat being cooked. Arthur sat across from him, a thin sliver of dark meat hanging from the blade of his knife. He smiled when he saw John was awake.

“Got a duck. Want some?” He offered the meat on the blade to John, who took it gingerly.

“Thanks.” He took a bite, feeling the hot food warm him from the inside out.

Arthur brandished the blade towards John accusingly. “You’re a man of many words in the morning, Mr. Marston. Truly, a conversational partner for the ages.”

John suppressed a smile. “Yup.”

“How does Abigail put up with you?” 

“You mean to tell me, she does? News to me.”

Arthur laughed. “Has to, to be sleeping in your bed every night.”

John nodded, finishing the meat in his hands. He always enjoyed these mornings with Arthur, not that he’d ever admit it. Something about the quiet of the land, the smell of meat blistering over an open flame, the afterglow of a firefight calmed John, gave him peace like nothing else ever could. Arthur shoved another piece of overcooked duck breast at him. 

“Things been okay between you two lately?” He wasn’t looking at John, instead focusing on not burning the food dangling from his knife. “Sounds kinda rough, sometimes. With Jack and all.” He looked up, hoping he hadn’t probed too much. 

John didn’t answer for some time. “I guess it’s been rough. She’s not taking too well to being moved around every other week, but then nobody is, really. I think she’s still just angry at me for leavin’. Can’t blame her, though.” 

Arthur nodded. “‘S’been hard, for all of us, that’s for sure.” He met John’s eyes. “She’ll come around, in her own time. Don’t worry too much on it.”

They ate quietly for a little while, enjoying the peaceful early morning, before John broke the silence. “Any ladies in your life as of late, Morgan?” 

Arthur smirked. “None to speak of, besides maybe the girls at hotels who insist on giving me a bath.” He bit off a chunk of meat. “Figured they don’t count, though.”

“Not so much.” He picked up a twig and began drawing swirling patterns in the dirt beside his bedroll. “Interested in any?”

“Not so much.”

John grunted in reply. 

“Should fix that shoulder of yours up, and get moving. Don’t really wanna stick around here for too much longer. You got a bandage?”

John grabbed his satchel from behind him and rifled through it. “Nope.”

“Hard way, then. Get a stick or something to bite down on.” He held his knife back over the fire.

John rose to his feet and crossed the clearing to the tree he’d hung his jacket from. He snapped off a small green branch and began stripping it of its leaves and bark. “Reckon that'll do.” He sat back down on Arthur’s bedroll, untying his shirt at the neck and pulling it down to expose his injured shoulder. He tried to roll it, and the sharp bolt of pain that ran down his arm near winded him. “Think the bullet’s still in there.” He placed the stick between his teeth and watched the knife grow hotter in the flames.

Arthur looked at him, apologetic. “I’ll be quick.”

  
  


~~~

  
  


The sun was starting it’s descent in the west when Arthur spotted a large herd of whitetail grazing a short way ahead. He motioned a hand at John, pulling his own horse up behind a bush laden with dark berries. As silently as was possible, he lowered himself to the ground, removing a rifle from the saddle. The dry leaf little under his feet crunched slightly with his weight, but the herd was far enough away that they likely wouldn’t be able to hear.

Arthur loaded a single round into the gun, took and then released a deep breath, and fired. His confidence in himself was not misplaced- one of the deer, a young doe, dropped to the ground almost instantly. The rest of the herd scattered in every direction, leaping over rocks until they had cleared the hill and were no longer visible.

“Make for good eatin’ tonight,” Arthur said, mostly to himself. He placed the rifle back on his saddle. “Wait here, John. Maybe pick some of those berries.”

John obliged, climbing down carefully from his own horse so as not to tweak his shoulder. They’d managed to get the bullet out, much to John’s surprise- it had felt pretty buried in there. Arthur had then cauterized the wound to stop the bleeding, which hadn’t been so bad at first, not least compared to the pain of digging a bullet out of his shoulder. But now that some time had passed, the burn flared with every minute movement of the fabric. 

The bramble was heavy with blackberries, and John plucked as many as he could, placing them gently into a clean cloth so as not to crush them.

Across the plain, Arthur worked quickly, skinning the doe with a skill John had yet to achieve. His blade glinted in the bright sunlight every so often, and John watched as Arthur removed the best parts of the deer and folded them into clean cloths of his own. He left the rest of the carcass there, throwing the hide over his shoulder and striding back to where John and the horses waited. He placed the meat into the saddlebags that Prasutagus carried, before turning to John and saying, “Need a hand?”

“Please.”

Arthur laced his fingers together and knelt to the ground. John lifted himself with his good arm, using Arthur’s calloused hands as a vault to launch into the saddle. He settled back into the seat, so worn that even when he was not in it, it showed the outline of his body. Arthur tightened the straps on Prasutagus’ saddle before climbing easily up onto the huge horse. He seemed to have fully recovered from the previous night’s bloody activities, though John supposed a man like him would be good enough at hiding his pain that he wouldn’t be able to tell otherwise.

“We should ride another few hours north, then bunker down for the night. We might be able to find a stream or somethin’ ahead, wash off.” He turned back in his saddle to look at John. “Sound alright?”

John nodded wordlessly, motioning a hand for Arthur to continue.

  
  


~~~

  
  


The sun seemed to linger on the horizon longer this night, as if reluctant to say goodbye to this corner of the earth. A few clouds danced in the distance, just wispy little things, not threatening any kind of downpour, but still blowing the fresh scent of rain across the plains.

Arthur had stopped them in the middle of an open field. They were far away from anyone else- they hadn’t even seen another rider on the trail since the morning. It would be much nicer to sleep under the stars on such a clear evening than cramped in another tiny clearing, tripping over one another.

John jumped from his saddle while Arthur fought with his horse, who seemed to be just as stubborn and unyielding as his rider. Old Boy was much more placid these days and did not protest to being tied to the stake that John drove into the ground.

John watched Arthur attempt to gain control of the massive steed, his voice low and annoyed. The horse’s ears were pinned back flat against its head, tail flicking with the same irritation. Arthur kicked a spur into his side, and finally, the horse seemed to understand this was not a battle that could be won. He calmed enough for Arthur to steer him towards the stake and tie his reins off, though he still looked about as murderous as a horse could.

Arthur grabbed his belongings from the saddle and threw them roughly onto the ground, kicking a few things away for good measure. John could see that steam might start whistling from his ears within the next few moments, so he spoke gently when he said, “Maybe you can go scout for a stream to wash up in. I’ll set up camp and get the horses brushed down.”

The look that Arthur gave him was somehow both disdainful and grateful, but he grabbed a set of clothes and walked off in the direction he thought a stream bubbled. “Be back later.”

John took his time setting camp up, knowing that _later_ really did mean later. The sky had been dark for quite some time before Arthur returned, and by then, John had already eaten some of the venison they’d hunted earlier in the day, as well as a can of beans and one of peaches. Arthur seemed in much better spirits, apparently cleansed of his annoyance as well as the blood and dirt the past few days had covered him in. He was quiet for a while, setting up his bedroll and cleaning his knife off. 

“Feeling better now?”

He smiled at John, genuine and warm. “Sure am.” He pointed the knife over John’s shoulder, to the northeast. “Stream’s over that way. Tiny little thing, but good enough for washing. Very clean.”

“Glad to hear it. Food’s there,” John replied, pointing to the roll of cloth sitting next to the fire. He clambered to his feet, still wary of moving his shoulder, and grabbed his spare set of clothing. “I’ll be back.”

“Funny, that,” Arthur murmured, smiling, but already looking in his satchel for a can of whatever.

  
  


~~~

  
  


Arthur was right. The stream was tiny, barely two feet wide and only half as deep, but clean as anything. It wove through a small cluster of young trees and berry brambles, and this was where John now knelt. He dipped his good hand into the water and brought it up to his face, wiping along his brow and cheeks, before bringing another handful and drinking, the water cool and clear as the night.

The moon tonight was near full, resting high in the sky and illuminating everything in such a way that John didn’t even need to light his lamp as he washed. He stripped his pants first and stood in the water, working the buttons on his shirt as best he could with only one hand. It took him several moments to figure out how to get the damn thing off without tweaking his shoulder, but he managed to do it without too much pain. He could feel the muscles in his back growing stiff and knew that soon he would have to, without any sense on. He sat in the water, and though it was a cold shock on his more sensitive areas, it was more of a relief than anything else. They’d been riding hard the past few days, hoping to get home before anything else happened. The gang had been in firefights and skirmishes with the O’Driscolls every few days as of late- they just couldn’t seem to stop crossing paths and stepping on each other’s toes. John was saddlesore on top of every other sore that he currently felt, but something about the gentle babble of the shallow water, the smooth stones underneath him, and the fresh night air made it all better, even just for a moment. 

He relaxed back, washing his hair and watching the dust and blood of the past week flow away downstream. The water was like pure heaven on his shoulder, and he found that as he scooped handfuls of it over the wound it became less red, and the throbbing weakened and slowed until it was almost gone.

After some time, and feeling much more human than before, John left the water and dried off. His shoulder was still sore, but now he was able to move it without feeling as though it were tearing away from his body. He dressed in his cleaner clothes, and dunked the others briefly into the water, swishing them around and rubbing them against the river stones to remove more of the dust in the fibers. They’d need a thorough clean when they got back to camp, but for now, this was better than nothing.

He walked back to their small campsite slowly, taking time to appreciate the beauty of the plains on a night such as this. The moonlight above highlighted all the outcroppings of rocks, silver in color, and jagged against the deep inky blue of the sky. With no lights around to pollute the view, the stars shone bright and strong, and on occasion, one would shoot clear across the expanse.

He found Arthur asleep, snoring loudly with his hat covering his face, surrounded by at least three different cans of food. The fire had died down some, and so John gathered some branches from nearby bushes to stoke it back to life. He sat on his bedroll, looking between the fire, the sky, and the sleeping man across from him, until sometime later he fell into a restful slumber of his own.

  
  


~~~

  
  


_Crunch_.

John’s eyes opened slightly. The fire was almost dead, smoking gently from a few coals. Arthur slept across from him, undisturbed. Dawn was only just starting to break from the east, setting the horizon a deep purple.

 _Crunch_. Another footstep. John reached slowly for the pistol laying next to his head.

Behind him, someone whispered something unintelligible. An answering murmur sounded like an agreement. John was fully awake now, trying to determine exactly how many people had happened across them, and where exactly they were located. A shuffle closer to his head told him there were, at the very least, three of them, and they were getting closer.

John shut his eyes, still slowly moving for his pistol, when the first gunshot rang out.

Arthur sat bolt upright, his hands holding a sawed-off, eyes ablaze. Taking this as his cue, John grabbed the pistol beside his head and stood in a single fluid motion.

There were, in fact, five of them. Two stood together closer to the campsite- the ones John had heard nearest his head. The other three were further back. They looked a little younger and far less sure of the situation than their two older companions.

“Come closer and die,” Arthur said behind him, voice low. Knowing Arthur, it was less of a threat and more of an invitation. John knew it was unlikely any of these men would make it out of this situation alive, regardless of what their intentions were.

One of the older two slowly lifted his hands. “No trouble, my friend.” He looked at the other man- shorter in stature, but with more muscle on him- and nodded almost imperceptibly. “We was just curious, is all.”

Arthur spat on the dirt. “Consider your curiosity satisfied, and fuck off.”

The bulkier man spoke then. “We aren’t lookin’ for no trouble, but if you can’t hold your tongue, then maybe you’ll find some regardless.” He kicked the dirt under his feet. “You’re on _our_ land.”

John cringed internally at the words. He heard Arthur take a deep, steadying breath before he said with venom in his tone, “ _Your_ land? Far as I can tell, this land belongs to nobody.” He stood from his bedroll, gun still aimed at the two men closest to the camp. “You buy this land here?”

The second man scoffed. “Fuck no. But that don’t mean it ain’t ours.” The first man said something quietly to the second, growing more visibly nervous with each passing second. The second man shook his head. “No. They can leave, or they’ll find themselves full o’ lead.”

Arthur outright roared with laughter at this. “Last I checked, friend, _I_ was the one with a gun trained on _you_ , not the other way round.”

John saw the first man flick his hand, and, in the moment between his signal and the younger men moving forward with knives drawn, had already shot him clear through his ribs. The man dropped to the ground, blood pulsing red and hot from his heart. Arthur claimed the shorter man, who staggered back with the full force of a shotgun slug to the stomach. John shot the kneecap of the closest boy, watching him collapse to the ground with a scream of agony. In the time it took him to try to reload, the other two had already advanced enough that melee was his only option. He dropped the gun in the dirt, pulling his knife from its sheath. Arthur was on the downed boy, plunging his knife into the boy's chest over and over, blood spraying as scarlet droplets everywhere.

The two other boys had the advantage over John, if only momentarily. John tackled one to the ground, knocking his knife from his hand and attempting to slit his throat. The second boy yelled something, maybe a name, and sank the blade of his knife to the hilt, straight into John’s injured shoulder. John yelled, feeling it hit bone and tear through the muscle, before Arthur finally rang off another shot and dropped the boy to the ground. John finished the last one off as quickly as possible, slicing through his neck.

He gurgled as he died, choking on his blood, and John sagged over his body. The knife still stuck straight from his shoulder, but at that moment, removing it felt like too much effort.

Arthur collapsed on the ground. John looked up with alarm, but relaxed when he saw that he was uninjured.

“Shit,” was all Arthur could manage.

Even though it hurt, John couldn’t help but laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write fanfiction for myself and for fun, and only hope others enjoy it as much as I do. I'm not overly concerned with perfect plotting, world-building, dialogue, and characterisation- but I'm also open to criticism for it. Any feedback is treasured!
> 
> -C


	2. Come, O Come, with Sinful Lays

The fire crackled between them, the smell of roasting turkey making John’s mouth water and stomach growl. The gin he’d downed some half-hour ago had helped dull the pain of his shoulder, and now he was comfortable enough that he could move without really feeling it. The bleeding had slowed to nothing more than a trickle every now and then, thanks again to Arthur’s quick skill and hot knife.

“So, you were awake the whole time?”

Arthur smiled, pushing the meat around with his knife and flipping it over. “‘Course I was. Do you think I’m some kind of amateur, Marston?”

“Only sometimes.”

The empty can Arthur lobbed at him glanced off his hat, knocking it off his head into the dirt. “Think you’re funny, asshole?”

John laughed. “Aw, come on now, don’t be like that.” He held out the half-empty bottle of gin. “Have some of this.”

The look that he gave John could have killed if only John were a weaker man. Still, he took the bottle and drank half of the remains in one mouthful. His face screwed up, and he took a look at the label before remarking, “That is the worst gin I’ve ever had.”

John shrugged. “Never said it was fine wine.”

The men they’d killed earlier in the day no doubt lay in their same places, eyes glazed, turned towards a kingdom they’d never enter. They’d left in a hurry, not bothering to hide the bodies, only concerned with escaping before more of them came looking for trouble. For most of the day, they’d ridden further northwest, avoiding the more popular trails and keeping far away from any fires they saw burning in the distance. The last thing they needed was more attention.

They were stopped again now, in another open area, but much further from any trails than the last time. They’d agreed that come nightfall, they’d put the fire out and simply deal with the cold night air, lest they be happened upon by more men with a thirst for blood and sense of entitlement.

Arthur offered a thick slice of the turkey meat to John, dangling precariously off the knife tip, which John took gratefully and juggled between his hands. He’d covered it in some kind of herb, and the first bite that John took almost made him weep. It was warm, and not as overcooked as usual, and desperately tasty. He polished off the slice in seconds, ignoring the burn on his tongue, and watched eagerly as Arthur cooked up more of it, slowly chewing his own.

They ate their fill and lay back on their bedrolls, full and warm and happy. 

“Arthur.”

He responded with a hum.

“Reckon when we get back to camp, you should take over from Pearson. That son of a bitch can’t cook to save his life, let alone anyone else’s.”

Arthur laughed. “Neither can I, Marston.”

“Don’t feel that way,” he replied, sounding as satisfied as he felt.

Arthur said nothing, only picked up his hat and tipped it at John, before placing it back on his face.

~~~

John had been asleep for some time before the rain woke him. Their fire had long since died, and Arthur had covered the coals with some of the dirt they now slept on. 

John looked around, groggy and confused, and found that not only was Arthur already awake, but he had almost finished setting up a tent just a few feet away from where John lay. John groaned, head pounding, and resting back onto his bedroll, drifting somewhere between awake and asleep.

“Get up, Marston. You’ll get sick if you sleep out here in the rain.”

John opened a single eye, trying to focus on the blurry figure standing over him. It kicked him gently in the ribs.

“Get up, you oaf. I set up the tent for you.”

“Wuh ‘bout you?”

The figure shrugged. “I’ll be fine.” It bent down, extending a hand for John to grab, which he gladly took. Arthur was much warmer than John expected- probably on account of the thick coat he now wore. “I don’t have a bullet wound _and_ a stab wound in the same shoulder.”

John grunted. “S’true.” Arthur pulled him to his feet, steadying him by his elbows when he threatened to tip over again. John turned unsteadily and wobbled over to the tent, dropping to his hands and knees to crawl inside. Even without his bedroll underneath him, the tent’s protection from the rain was much nicer than his previous arrangement, and he drifted back into a dreamless sleep within seconds of resting his head on the dirt.

~~~

The morning sun shone strongly into the tent, directly into John’s eyes. He clenched them shut, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head, which had only worsened since earlier. It was almost as if the boy who had stabbed his shoulder was back with a vengeance, stabbing him directly in the side of his skull. Over and over and over again.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Arthur said, kicking John’s shoe. “Want some breakfast?”

He moved so that his figure was blocking the sun, and John was able to open his eyes for long enough to see that he was eating from a can, chewing slowly and smiling at John as if enjoying an inside joke.

John just shook his head.

“Figures. I can smell the gin from here.”

He let his head drop back on the dirt- which he immediately regretted, thanks to the sharp bolt of pain- and rolled over onto his side. It was only then that he noticed the bedroll laying next to him.

“You slept in the tent?” he whispered, voice hoarse and dry.

Arthur nodded. “Rain got real bad. Figured you were sleepin’ like the dead anyway. You didn’t even stir.” He grinned at his beans. “You also pass a lot of gas when you sleep. Not entirely sure how Abigail puts up with it.”

“Fuck off.”

Arthur laughed. “Get up, Marston. We gotta get back to camp today.”

John stayed in the tent for a few minutes longer, longing for death, before finally mustering the will to roll to his hands and knees and stand up. Every movement set his head pulsing painfully, and he kept his eyes halfway closed in the bright and unforgiving sunlight. Arthur watched him, amused.

Once the camp was packed back onto the horses, and Arthur forced John to eat a handful of the berries he’d picked the other night, they mounted the horses and set out for camp, heading west. They chose, again, to use smaller trails. Neither of them spoke this aloud, but both of them knew that it had to be done. They’d had too many deadly encounters in just the last few days to really trust that the main trail wouldn’t lead to another.

John sipped water here and there and ate a few crackers to settle his stomach, and mindlessly followed behind Arthur. He noticed that the man had a way with his horse, an unspoken bond, and the horse responded to the most minuscule directions without so much as a whisper from his rider. They were so attuned to one another that a simple movement of Arthur’s hand, or a flick of the horse's ear, said more than words or spurs ever could.

Prasutagus himself was a beautiful animal. Just looking at him, you could tell he was strong, powerful. His papers- which John had stolen to look over at the time Arthur purchased him- classified him as an iron-gray Ardennes. His coat was a beautiful, dappled silver, with a distinct white blaze on his face, and dark mane and tail hairs. And, being that he belonged to Arthur Morgan, he was in impeccable shape. Well-fed, always clean, and completely loved- even when he was being stubborn. Anybody could look to this horse and assume the best of his owner.

John knew the truth. Arthur may have his moments of good nature and kindness, but to his core, the man was bad. More often than not, his honey kindness was nothing more than a ploy to get something his vinegar nature was unable to catch. And while he undoubtedly loved his horse, he held no such love for the majority of humanity. Only a few people could truly say that they felt loved by, and loved in return, Arthur Morgan. John had never known whether to count himself among the few. In the past, it would have undoubtedly been a ‘no’, but these days were less certain in this matter.

They arrived back in camp to no fanfare just as the sun began to set again. Pearson looked over his shoulder, knife in hand, and waved it in a greeting before turning back to whatever vegetable he had been sawing uselessly at. The stew pot was not hanging over the fire, And John silently thanked whichever God looked upon him that he would not be accosted with the scent of grease and overcooked game just yet.

Arthur tied Prasutagus to the larger of two posts before turning to John to help him down from his saddle.

“Might wanna see one of the ladies about your shoulder,” he said quietly. “Can’t imagine I did too good of a job fixing it up out there.”

John nodded. “Thanks, Arthur.” He patted his partner on the shoulder before continuing, “Better go find the lady.”

Abigail was resting with Jack in their small lean-to, listening to his small voice stutter over the words of the large book resting on his lap. He looked up when John approached, his face instantly brightening, and leaped out of the tent with arms outstretched with no regard for the book.

“You’re back!” He slammed into John, knocking his injured shoulder.

He gritted his teeth and pulled the boy back, turning his expression into a wide smile. “‘Course I did, son. Had to come back and make sure you hadn’t destroyed the whole camp!”

Jack laughed merrily and hugged John tighter. “I missed you.”

“I was only gone a week, son.”

“Yeah, I know. I still missed you.” He pulled back, eyes wide and serious. “Uncle says he’s dying again.”

John scoffed. “‘Course he did. Uncle’s always dying. What’s he got now?”

“He said it was somethin’ called ‘tuberlucosis’.”

John rolled his eyes. “Tuberculosis. Sure.” He followed Jack’s concerned gaze to where Uncle lay- drunk, passed out- against a shaded tree. “There’s nothing wrong with Uncle, save him having no brains left in his rotten skull. That’s all.”

Jack turned back to John, his expression disapproving. “That’s mean, pa. Momma tells me not to say that stuff.” He crossed his tiny arms across his chest, and John couldn’t help but soften at his bravado. He ruffled the kid's hair.

“Your momma’s right. You should listen to her and ignore me, a’right?” 

Jack nodded, eyes grave. “Okay, pa.” He looked back to where his book had fallen, though Abigail had since picked it up and placed it back on the bed, open to the page he’d been reading from. “I’m gonna go read my book again.”

John watched him as he jumped back onto the bedroll, excitedly finding his place in the book. He couldn’t help but feel just a little proud.

“Mr. Marston.”

John smiled before turning. “Miss Roberts.” He took her hand with his uninjured one and brought it to his lips to press a gentle kiss to the backs of her fingers. “I brought you a gift.”

The corners of her mouth lifted slightly. “ _Brought_ me a gift, did you? Which unlucky someone did you _bring_ it from?” 

John’s mouth popped open with put-on hurt. “Miss Roberts! _I_ am a man of _honor_ \- I would do no such thing!” He pulled the small bag from his pocket, tugging the drawstrings open and dropping the silver piece of jewelry onto his palm. The long chain had tangled some in the bag, but he deftly undid the knot before lifting the whole piece for Abigail to admire. The stone was small but threw a rainbow across the ground as it spun.

Abigail made a pleased noise. “Very pretty, Mr. Marston.” She gently touched the pendant, lifting it to see it better. “I’m very glad you thought to _bring_ this to me,” she murmured, the smile on her face lightening her tone. She spun around, lifting the hair from the back of her neck, and John placed the necklace over her head.

“Beautiful,” he said, tracing the line where her dress met with her skin. “As always, of course.”

She spun around to face him again, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Thank you,” she said, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. Leaning back, she gave him a once over. “Maybe we should get you cleaned up a little, huh?”

“Sounds good. Arthur wanted me to see to this-” he pulled the collar of his shirt down over his injured shoulder “-and make sure it was healin’ right. Or rather, he wanted you to see to it.”

“I can do that.”

~~~

“A room, please, for the night.” John handed the money over. “And a bath. Just one.”

“O’course,” the innkeeper said. “Bath’s freshly drawn, just head on down the hall when you’re ready. Your room is at the top of the stairs, to the left.” He dropped a small key in John’s hand, before turning back to his ledger.

Abigail picked up the small bag at her feet. “I’ll go put this in our room and meet you in the bath.” She gave him a wink before taking the stairs two at a time.

The bathroom smelled like flowers- which kind, John couldn’t say- and was so steamy that he felt cleaner simply walking in. He stripped quickly before testing the water and finding it slightly too hot for his tastes, so he topped it off using the small jug of cold water provided. He hopped in the tub and relaxed back, feeling the warm water start to loosen the muscles in his back almost immediately.

He was half asleep by the time Abigail came into the room, her hair falling freely over her shoulders. She smiled, seeing him so relaxed, but then frowned as her eyes moved lower.

“You need to eat more, John. You look thin.”

“I eat fine, woman. Any more and I’ll get fat and lazy like Uncle.” 

Abigail laughed gently. “I’m not sure that’s possible.” She knelt beside the bath, resting her head on the lip. “You’re not the lazy type. That wound looks bad.”

John looked down to his shoulder at the jagged edges of his stab wound. It had long since stopped weeping but was still crusted over with blood and dirt. “Might have to see the doc, after all.” He looked at Abigail, noticed how soft her eyes were as she watched him, couldn’t help the swell in his chest. “Can you help me clean it, still?”

Abigail picked up a sponge from the tray resting on the bath and dipped it in the sudsy water before pressing it gently to his shoulder. The water ran in a trickle back into the bath, colored a deep russet, and smelling strongly of metal. “Does it hurt?” she asked softly, an apology already in her tone.

“Only stings a little.” John shifted uncomfortably in the tub, water sloshing around him. “Mostly I just ache all over.”

“That’s what happens when you sleep on the ground every night, John.”

“You sleep on the ground plenty of nights.”

Abigail gave him a look. “It’s different. When you’re with Arthur, it’s different.” A smile played on the corners of her lips. “He told me you got drunk and slept straight on the dirt, you fool. It’s no surprise you’re aching all over. ‘Specially when you’re not as young and spry as you used to be.”

“I’m plenty young and spry, thank you very much.” He closed his eyes, trying to suppress a smile of his own. Of course Arthur would have ratted on him.

“Maybe.”

John opened one eye to look at her. “I can prove it.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Miss Roberts. And lucky for you, we have all ni-” 

His eyes flew wide. Abigail had her sleeve pushed to her elbow, hand in the tub, working him from root to tip. She watched his face, her eyes dark and serious.

“What were you saying, Mr. Marston? Something about having all night?”

John could only moan in response, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. She continued working over him, slow and steady, ignoring the way his hips moved up into her hand desperately. She leaned over the tub and captured his lips with hers, kissing him gently and sweetly and nowhere near enough, not until she changed her tune entirely and began gently twisting her hand up and down his cock. John almost exploded just from the small change, pressing up into her touch fervently, half-crazed with lust.

“Abigail,” he managed to choke out.

She only hushed him, her touch never changing until she swiped a thumb over his slit and he came with a strangled cry, hard enough to slosh half of the water out of the tub. When he was able to see again, Abigail was already pulling her sleeve down on her now-dry arm, watching him with her cheeks flushed a deep pink. He lifted an arm, stroking her cheek with his water-wrinkled thumb.

“I was _saying_ , lucky for you, we have all night together.”

~~~

They lay together in the bed in their room, above the covers. Abigail’s hair stuck to her face, her face still flushed that obscene pink as she ran her fingers lightly up and down John’s stomach.

“One of the men we killed, the O’Driscoll boys, he told us where Colm was holed up.”

Abigail’s hand stopped. “Where’d he say they was?”

“Heartland Overflow, not far from the train tracks.”

Her brow creased. “That’s not real far. A day’s ride, maybe?”

John kissed her forehead, wrapping his arms around her as gently as he could so he didn’t set his wound to bleeding again. They’d reopened it once that night already, and it had just started to heal back over. “The men and I will go together. We’re good enough to take him there. The O’Driscoll said there weren’t many of ‘em left now anyways.”

She pulled back from his arms to lean on her elbow. “What if I didn’t want you to go?”

John frowned. “Why would you not want me to go?”

She looked pointedly at his shoulder. “That, for one. But I also just… can’t bear the thought of you not comin’ back home to me.”

John’s expression softened and he tilted his head to press a kiss on her lips. “I’m sure they’ll manage fine without me, then.” He smiled then, his eyes narrowing. “Not that I can’t take on an O’Driscoll like this. I mean, if I could take you on toni-”

He stopped talking again then, his mouth suddenly busied with other, far more interesting things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write fanfiction for myself and for fun, and only hope others enjoy it as much as I do. I'm not overly concerned with perfect plotting, world-building, dialogue, and characterisation- but I'm also open to criticism for it. Any feedback is treasured!
> 
> -C


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